


A Little Like Chess

by Anonymous



Series: A Little Like [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon typical sexual creepiness, Canon-Typical Violence, Foyet is creepy, Foyet's canon obsession with Hotch, Hotch taking advantage of Foyet's canon obsession with him, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Injury, M/M, Mind Games, Non-Consensual Touching, Protective David Rossi, Sexual Violence, episode tag: s05e01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26150077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Post 5x01, Hotch is still in the hospital. Foyet brings him flowers.
Relationships: George Foyet/Aaron Hotchner, very onesided but still tagging
Series: A Little Like [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910071
Comments: 20
Kudos: 112
Collections: Anonymous





	A Little Like Chess

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short little 2000 word piece relating to a idle idea and just grew. Sorry this got LONG. It’s now four parts and counting. Not sure if I’m gonna post any more of this but this can stand alone if it needs to. Kinda amazed I even wrote this tbh. Wrote it in a day, the other parts the following three days, and I've been staring at it ever since editing, judging myself, and worrying about plot holes. Extra notes at the end. If I've missed a tag/tagged incorrectly please let me know.

Consciousness came back slowly, reluctantly—in increments, drip fed by the drugs softening the corners—and it felt like a little like falling. The pain was distant, softly knocking on a door he’d have to answer eventually, but it was all so far away. Hotch didn’t think he could open his eyes. Had they changed his dose? His team had been here, before, and it had been easy then. Now his eyelids would barely flutter. But there was something off—a floral scent, a sound—

Someone in the room with him.

Hotch blinked his eyes open through sheer force of will, caught sight of the bouquet resting on the table, the man standing next to it, but even that wasn’t enough to stop them sliding shut. Even with shock of surprise—dread curling deep in his gut—he couldn’t force them open again.

“Hey sleepy head, took you long enough to wake up. You gonna open your eyes? _C’mon_.”

Hotch must have made a sound, perhaps a sigh of protest, because Foyet laughed softly.

“You like the flowers? I wasn’t sure if the colour would be too garish—but everyone likes roses, right?”

The tone was altogether too friendly for a man standing next to the person he had stabbed nine times. Hotch fought through the fog of drugs and willed his mind to clear. Flowers? He had brought him, of all things, roses. An odd move. Would demonstrate remorse in someone else, or even a twisted form of mockery, but no, that wasn’t the case here. Red roses, already in full bloom, a symbol of romance and sensuality. This was a way to establish _intimacy_. 

Hotch won’t address it. His voice came out quiet, the edge a little too raw, but easily disguised as his regular soft baritone. “You took me to the hospital.”

“Yeah, obviously,” Foyet laughed a little as if he was being slow. “though I’m not surprised you don’t remember, you were unconscious for most of the trip.”

Hotch wanted to frown. He didn’t allow himself to. His eyes still wouldn’t open. “You drove my car, it wouldn’t start. Took you three tries.”

Foyet was smiling, Hotch could hear his amusement. Unrepentant. Unoffended. “There we go. Still so clever, though you seem a bit tired, Aaron. They got you on the good stuff?”

The use of his name, the compliment—it slotted into the profile, stored in the part of his mind that couldn’t stop observing. He finally managed to force his eyes open, blinking slowly with drug induced lethargy, and controlled his startle with the ease of practise and patience. Foyet was so close, too close, perched on the side of his bed. He grinned at him. For a moment there was a flash of memory, the phantom pain of a knife, of being held down, but he merely held Foyet’s gaze and waited for it to pass. He could panic later.

He concentrated on keeping his eyes open. 

“You’ve already read my chart.” He said evenly. “What do you think?”

“I _think_ ,” Foyet said, his smile suddenly coy. “that you haven’t told me if you like the flowers.”

Hotch spared them a glance that lasted a millisecond. “They’re lovely.”

“Lovely?” Foyet was enjoying this.

Hotch forced his lips to quirk into his own coy smile. “Not very subtle though. Red roses?”

“I thought I’d go traditional.” Foyet shrugged, pleased. “You can’t deny they brighten the place up.”

“You like the thought of other people seeing them, wondering who they are from.” Hotch said, some strength returning to his voice. It was becoming easier to keep his eyes open. “You like the thought of me trying to explain.”

It’s why you went so heavy handed—this isn’t just for my team, for me. It’s for the nurses, the doctors. It’s even for people that aren’t here. Haley. Jack. You’re staking a claim. It was an unsettling realisation, but it was true. Some part of this was about possession.

“Profiling through drugs? Impressive.” Foyet didn’t deny it though. He didn’t seem inclined to. “You are _good_.”

Hotch closed his eyes for a moment, allowed a soft hmm of agreement. “Tell me what you want or get out.”

“So daring, Aaron.” Foyet replied, eyes flicking the length of his body. Hotch knew what he must look like, how vulnerable, how appealing that would be to someone like Foyet. How he’d feel knowing he was responsible for his condition. There was a thrill in that power. “You’re so feisty today.”

Interesting word choice. Patronising. Hotch was unmoved. “You like me feisty.” 

“I like you like _this_ —you haven’t even reached for the call button, stoic as you are—immobile, in pain, those drugs keeping you nice and docile. Pale too, you lost a lot of blood. Weak as a new-born kitten. Even better than when I had you on your back in your apartment.” Foyet winked. “Though I wouldn’t be opposed to a repeat.”

“You moved the call button when you came in.” Hotch resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He refused to address the rest of Foyet’s words—but he didn’t dismiss them. He didn’t forget them.

“Right again! Though I’m disappointed I didn’t get to see you reach for it.” 

Hotch had known better. 

“You slipped past the guard outside.” Hotch said. No one had seriously thought Foyet would come back, but they had still taken precautions. He looked past him to the closed curtains at the door of his room. “Probably on a rotation change. Though I’m expecting we won’t be disturbed?”

“Your team’s on a case, and I handled the rest. No one’s going to be coming in for a long time.” Foyet confirmed with a shrug.

“Then I ask again, tell me what you want and then leave.” Hotch disliked having to repeat himself. 

“You don’t call the shots here, big guy.” Foyet leant forward a little, bracing himself with a hand on the headboard of the hospital bed. The gesture put him in a position Hotch really did not like. “There’s only so much daring I’ll tolerate.”

Hotch did not like how close he now was. He did not like the way Foyet loomed over him. It was too much, too reminiscent of before, the knife wounds, the pain, being unable to move and unable to—

“You’re taking an awful long time to get to the point.” Hotch said blandly. “Why are you stalling?”

“Aren’t you the profiler?” Foyet said nastily. “Why don’t you figure it out yourself?”

Foyet shifted a little, adjusted his grip a little on the headboard, settling more comfortably on the bed. It brought his thigh flush against Hotch’s, the comforter the only barrier, and the surprise of it almost undid him. Hotch caught his flinch as it blossomed, evened the hitch in his breath as it tried to stutter, and kept his expression shuttered and calm.

But Foyet had been watching him oh so carefully, and his eyes caught some hint of something in his face. He grinned like a child who’d found an extra present under the Christmas tree—a child who liked unwrapping gifts with a knife.

“You’re thinking about it aren’t you?” Foyet kept his voice soft, almost crooning. Persuasive. “Is it the pose that’s so familiar? Me leaning over you this way— am I triggering a flashback, kitten?”

The endearment was meant to embarrass him, emasculate him. Hotch couldn’t help it— had to admit the hit landed—it very nearly made him blush. This time, he allowed himself that mocking eye roll.

“No, though it isn’t surprising you’d think so.”

“No?” Foyet purred, eyes malicious as he leant closer, bending to whisper in Hotch’s ear. It was too close to comfort, a soft ghost of contact, and it was entirely too intimate. Like the roses. Like the use of his first name, the endearments, the flirting and innuendo, and— “Shh, I can hear that mind of yours whirring away. How is that profile of yours looking, now?”

“Entirely ordinary.” Hotch was not above petty bitchiness. 

Laughter. He very carefully did not shiver. “Like I said, feisty. Though I know what you’re doing, trying to distract yourself from remembering, trying to create distance. Let’s see what we can do about _that_.”

Foyet placed his hand on his chest, splaying his fingers in bold possession. He didn’t use much pressure, but it may as well have been a brick on his chest. Foyet knew exactly where the wounds were. And his hand was resting on the very last one, the deepest, the wound that could have nicked his heart. Hotch remembered the knife going in, slowly, reverently, sinking until the handle was flush against his skin. He remembered the careful way Foyet had pulled it out, his little wink. It made him feel sick. Aaron needed the catharsis of a shaky exhale, to close his eyes and flinch, but _Hotch_ knew that he could not. 

“You brought me flowers.” Hotch said, eyes forward. Forcing himself to become distracted by the roses—anything to ground himself from that hand on his chest, Foyet’s lips at his ear. He longed to push him away, knock him back, but he forced himself to stay still. “You always bring something to your crime scenes and you always take something. This, _reminiscence_ , is all window dressing—a bonus. It isn’t what you really want.”

“A very nice bonus.” Foyet agreed, pulling back, sliding his hand down to Hotch’s abdomen. For all the covers, the hospital gown, were a barrier, he may as well have been naked. Foyet’s touch was gentle, the light caresses you’d give to a lover, skimming over his body like he owned it. Hotch was grateful for the drugs dulling sensation, for the slight hint of pain; his body was too worn to respond to being touched so gently, his body was too worn to respond in confused heat the way Hotch suddenly feared it would. “Though I don’t quite think this is a crime scene. Should I stab you again?”

“If you want the alarm of the machines monitoring my vitals to start screaming at you, go ahead.”

“Hmm.” Foyet flicked his eyes to the side. “You know, I’ve been paying attention and your heartbeat’s been steady this whole time. Impressive. I’d wanted to at least get it to skip a beat.”

“Would that get you to leave?”

“Shall we give it a try?” Another frustrating little wink, that hand sliding lower—

Foyet was looking for a flinch. Hotch didn’t give him one. “Stop teasing.”

Phrasing was important. Foyet paused, surprised, and Hotch very carefully did not smile at the victory. “You think I’m teasing you?”

Hotch glanced down at Foyet’s hand, dangerously low on his abdomen, and then looked back up. Unimpressed. “You’re performing. Trying too hard—why?”

Saying the words seemed to make the puzzle clearer, the answer sliding into focus with lightning speed. Hotch took stock of the room, his surroundings, the clothes piled on his chair, and noticed how they’d been disturbed. The jacket was slung over the back. He glared at Foyet, eyes cold.

“Where’s my phone?”

His _personal_ cell had been here. Not his work one.

“You want to make a call?” Foyet grinned maliciously, but his eyes were deadly. Calm. Serious. He had not been expecting that question. He had not _wanted_ that question.

“No, but I think that you do.” Hotch replied because he now knew what this was all about. He was certain of it. He tried to think if there was anything on there Foyet could use. No new address, no contact (Hotch didn’t even know where they were) but there were other things—pictures, old messages, Haley’s family, all little suggestions Foyet was smart enough to use. “You saw the address of my family but by the time you moved to act it was too late. You came back here because you need new information. You’re fishing, Foyet, because you want to make sure you can play the next phase of your game.”

“Haley and Jack,” Foyet deliberately used their names. The same way Hotch deliberately didn’t. “you figured out my aim so quickly I didn’t get a chance to say hello. Woke up a little too quickly, you overachiever.”

“Your bonus, your window dressing, all to delay me realising my phone was gone.”

“Always so smart, the big, strong FBI agent figuring everything out. Oh don’t be hurt, _kitten_.” Foyet pressed down, hard, and Hotch winced at the feeling of tension on fresh stitches. “I’m here for you, first and foremost, don’t forget that.”

It was true. Foyet could have just stolen his phone without him knowing, left him asleep, and Hotch would have been none the wiser. It would have been easier that way. More likely to succeed without Hotch figuring it out too quickly. The fixation was obvious, if a little odd how Foyet took such pleasure out of making it overtly sexual. Hotch could allow himself the relief that Haley and Jack were accessories, ways to get to him, but he did not like how expendable that made them in the Reapers mind. The same with his team. The same with everyone in this damn hospital. The profile had to have an answer. It always did. Had his fixation with Shaunessy ever gone this far? ‘Till death do us part’ was the only hint he could think of—a parody of a marriage vow. Still, distasteful though it was, a sexual fixation was something Hotch could work with. It was something Hotch could use to distract Foyet, maybe even alter how he was playing the game.

“Give me my phone.” Hotch ordered. “And I’ll give you something else.”

Foyet paused. “Now you want to make a deal?”

“I don’t make deals with serial killers. But I will make a trade.”

“A trade.”

“My phone. For something of equal value.”

“You have something in mind?” Foyet’s expression was mocking. 

Hotch quirked a brow, titled his head and smiled up at him at just the right angle, pitched his voice just so. “Don’t you want to know if our scars look the same?”

Foyet’s expression was an exaggeration of surprise, meant to mock what Hotch had offered. But he could not help the way his eyes flared with interest at the way the tilt of Hotch’s head exposed his throat, the way his eyes darted to Hotch’s torso, how his hand slid over his stomach in that same possessive glide. “As tempting as you are—”

Hotch interrupted. Mostly because he wanted to infuriate him, make him want to put Hotch in his place, force him to submit, but also partly because he wanted to get this _over_ with. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to see them. You won’t get another chance like this, not one where I’m willing. Don’t tell me you don’t find the prospect of forcing such a concession from me—enticing.”

“Can’t take scars with me.” It wasn’t a no. Foyet’s eyes were expectant, waiting, wanting Hotch to show just what he was willing to say to convince him.

Good. It’s a position Hotch was willing to take. A trade, _not_ a deal, and if it got Foyet’s attention diverted away from his family, his team, everyone, for a moment, then all the better. 

“You can take a picture, though.”

For a moment Foyet laughed, so very obviously surprised. Then he sighed, pleased. “Well, well, _well_ , I’ll let you win this round, Aaron.”

“My phone?”

Foyet reached into his pocket, showing him the slim mobile with a flourish that was undeniably smug. He glanced at the screen. “Good thing this is on silent, you’re very popular today. So many people worried about you. How about we—”

Hotch resisted the urge to snatch it from his hand. “Did you bring your own?”

Foyet did not like being interrupted again. His thumb was very close to ripping a stitch. “Aaron, those drugs might be a bit too strong, we aren’t trading phones here, you gotta keep up.”

“You’re going to take the picture on my phone.”

He’d surprised him. Hotch could tell. But Foyet was smart, quick witted, albeit an arrogant narcissist, and he caught on quickly. “You’re letting me take your _phone number_.”

“I’ll send you the picture, before you leave.” Hotch replied. “I know you’ll enjoy watching me do it.”

Foyet glanced at the phone, then at him, lips quirked into a smile. “This might just be even better than what I had planned with this.”

That’s the whole _point_.

“It’s password protected.”

“There a question in there somewhere?” Foyet smiled. “I was planning on hacking it. Hey, you need help getting undressed? I _know_ that gown ties at the back.”

Hotch was not changing in front of him.

“Give me your knife.” 

Foyet was arrogant enough to do it without question. He flipped the knife into his hand and offered it hilt first. It was meant to be galling, humiliating, but Hotch would not let the embarrassment sink into his skin. He held the collar of his gown taut and, without giving himself time to think, jerked the knife down an inch, ripped it the rest of the way. The motion was detached, unhurried, coldly clinical, but he found it difficult to meet Foyet’s eyes once he was done.

He did anyway.

That gaze was pleased, victorious, Hotch knew he was playing into Foyet’s fantasy, and he allowed himself a moment of clinical curiosity at what he might do next. But that was what he did, that was what profilers did, and it was what they could do like no one else could. A profiler could skim that line. He knew how to manipulate a psychopath. At his core, Foyet was just like all the rest. This may be the first time he was doing it as a victim—a word he had never before despised the way he did now— but that didn’t make a difference.

“Well?” He said calmly, eyebrow raised in challenge.

The Reaper grinned his answer. “Hand me back that knife, Aaron.”

This would be the worst part, he was sure. When Foyet slid the blade under the first bandage, he once again locked his gaze onto the roses and put all his focus into not flinching—forcing himself to swallow down the urge to vomit. The second was easier, he was calm by the third, and by the fourth the sound barely registered; the cool of the blade on his skin, though, was something he found himself quite unable to block out. It took several cuts before it warmed to his skin. Just like before. Just like—

The roses. He forced himself to count the petals on every flower. It helped.

A horribly familiar weight across his legs, view replaced with Foyet’s smug smile, the flash of a knife, and Hotch glared stonily at the man straddling his hips. 

“You were getting distracted. Almost done—the doctors did a fine job stitching you up.” He shrugged and then his smile turned salacious as he careful pushed the torn gown aside, moved bandages. “ _Look_ at you. Should have gotten your shirt off earlier, sweetheart, you work out?”

He ran his fingers down the line of stitches, touching skin now, starting at his left forearm. Hotch had been wrong. _This_ was going to be the worst part. Foyet knew it too and, oh, how he smiled in wicked delight as he leant in close again. For a moment Hotch had the horrifying impression that Foyet was going to kiss him, but he ducked low at the last moment and licked up the length of a stitched wound. Hotch bit his lip on instinct, worrying at it for half a heartbeat before smoothing his expression before Foyet could see. He heard a chuckle, felt cool breath against his skin, felt Foyet move to the next cut, and made his decision then and there.

He jabbed at Foyet’s elbow, got the leverage to push him sideways, and very nearly shoved him onto the floor. The movement was enough to cause a flash of pain to break through the haze of drugs. It was worth it. But Foyet grabbed Hotch’s arm to steady himself, caught the other wrist, and pinned them down either side of his head. His grip was firm but it was _gentle_ , gallingly so, treating him like he was glass. The torn gown was slipping down his shoulders—he watched Foyet’s gaze catch on his bared skin.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Foyet’s voice was rough when he spoke, low and purring. “I love it when you struggle, but you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Hotch tugged once more at his grip. “Let go of me. This wasn’t part of our trade.”

“The things I would do to you if it were. I know where you keep your handcuffs.” Foyet paused, staring down at him with a thousand suggestions in his eyes. He looked between Hotch’s pinned wrists, catching his gaze with a wink, and let the moment drag a beat too long. Long enough for Hotch to read every implication in those dark eyes. “But you’re right.”

He let him go and leant back, sucked in a pleased little breath. Hotch realised too late he’d left his hands where Foyet had placed them. He returned them to his sides. 

Foyet smirked. “I didn’t know you took direction so well, Aaron.”

Hotch granted him a dismissive roll of his eyes.

“Hm,” Foyet voice turned speculative as he turned his gaze back to Hotch’s torso. “yours do look the same, if a little neater. Benefits of the FBI?”

Hotch pitched his voice at just the right tone of indifference.

“Are you done?”

Foyet allowed himself one last teasing caress, from sternum to the scar low on his right side, and then smiled. “Almost.”

He picked up Hotch’s phone, wiggling it in front of his face. “Can I trust you to unlock this for me?”

“It’s part of the trade.”

“Hmm, hey, you wanna give me your password?”

“No.”

“Spoil sport!” But Foyet handed him the phone.

Hotch unlocked it. Handed it back. “We both know you like it when people fight back.”

“No one has ever fought quite like you.” Foyet’s gaze was on the phone, he was leaning back. Trying to get the best picture. The angle must be giving him trouble. “I really thought you’d take the deal, you know. It was surprising when you didn’t. I’m not often surprised.”

Hotch remembered the guilt—Rossi’s kind, uncompromising face—and the tears drying on his cheeks. It had been the first case he’d cried on in years. 

“Done!” Foyet was pleased. Of course, he was. That had been the whole point.

“Great, now get out.” Hotch had never been one to waste words.

But Foyet had his own phone in his hand, was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to capitulate, or renege, on their trade. “Look at us, exchanging numbers.”

“Get off me first.” 

“Uncomfortable?”

“Yes,” Hotch deadpanned. “you’re heavy.”

The Reaper laughed, but obliged, reclaiming his perch on the side of Hotch’s bed. He listed off the digits of his number, undoubtably a disposable (he’d ask Garcia to track it anyway), and watched as Hotch typed it into his phone. When he came to sending the photo, Hotch deliberately did not look—not now, not with him watching—and only caught the barest impression of livid stitching on pale skin. He kept his movements slow, didn’t rush; because Foyet wanted to enjoy this, remember it, savour it, and Hotch needed to make sure of that. So yes, he slowed himself down, let Foyet take his fill of knowing Hotch had conceded in this way. 

He looked him right in the eyes—victorious, light with liquid pleasure—as he pressed send.

It was a minute before he heard the tone, the sound of a text received, but there was no mistaking Foyet’s expression when he opened the message. 

With the Reaper so distracted, so enthralled, Hotch found he had a spare few moments where he as unobserved and took advantage with ruthless precision. Foyet was getting sloppy. He fired off a text without looking.

“I saw that.” 

Foyet’s gaze snapped to his phone. His smile had gone.

“Aren’t we done here?” Hotch knew how to affect bored dismissal. “We should be. I’d guess you have about five minutes before a team’s here to arrest you. Better start running.”

It may have been a slight exaggeration, but they both knew the sentiment was true.

The Reaper was smart enough to know that time was no longer on his side, the loss of control enough to set him on edge. He lost his casual air, the friendliness. The signs were effortless to see, child’s play for someone as experienced as Hotch; tightening of the eyes, the way he shoved his phone into his pocket and surged to his feet, and Hotch found a pleased little smirk settling on his lips. Foyet wasn’t content to just walk out though and he loomed over Hotch like he was actually planning on killing him then and there.

Hotch glared up at him.

What happened next caught even him by surprise, because Foyet was suddenly on him and there was a searing pain in his neck. It was instinctual to try and shrink away, push at his shoulders with arms still weakened from drugs, and Hotch growled angrily when Foyet grabbed his hands and pinned them above his head. This time he wasn’t trying to be gentle. He wasn’t mindful of the IV in Hotch’s hand. This wasn’t playful. It _hurt_. The forced pose distracted him for a moment—it splayed his body out, arched his back, restrained him like Foyet was _fucking_ him— but it didn’t take him long to realise what that pain was.

Foyet had _bitten_ him. 

He felt the man graze his teeth over the wound as he withdrew, leaning over Hotch with blood on his lips, still pinning him in place. He struggled because there was no way he wouldn’t, ignoring the pain of torn stitches, glaring up at him coldly, and ignored the slick slide of blood down his neck.

“The knife wounds can be hidden, but I think you’ll find my little gift too high for your shirt collar.” Foyet hissed, smug and certain and furious. His grip on Hotch’s wrists tightened and he wrenched his arms higher, proving how vulnerable he was by how easily he could yank him around. “Good luck explaining that, Agent. You think your coworkers will profile you, make assumptions, whisper behind your back when you come into work with a _bite mark_ sitting high on your throat? The doctors here will have plenty to say, the nurses plenty of pity, and what would your lovely ex-wife think if she knew?”

“I think,” Hotch said calmly, terror locked in a box in the back of his mind. “if you want to get caught you should keep talking.”

Foyet growled, low and dangerous. “I could _wreck_ you.”

“You don’t have the time.” Hotch let himself laugh. 

There was a moment of hesitation, barely a second, as Foyet stared him down. He was thinking about it, Hotch knew, and oh how he wanted to do it. The Reaper was smart though, calculated, and he reigned himself in—after all, he’d got what he wanted. He'd gotten more than he wanted.

He let go of Hotch’s wrists, suddenly all smiles, rage banked and simmering, straightened up and winked. “Later then, sweetheart.”

A mocking salute before he left the room, and then he was gone. 

There was a moment where he waited and, then, let out the shaky exhale he’d been holding for so long. He pulled the hospital gown back onto his shoulders, saw how his fingers shook as he tried to pull the blanket higher. He felt exposed. There were vivid bruises blooming around his wrists. It was obvious how the marks had been made. Hotch frowned, knowing they’d be easy to hide, but put a hand to his neck and knew he’d probably have a scar. A scar in the shape of Foyet’s _teeth_.

He caught sight of the stitches in his arms, the stab wounds on his forearms, and couldn’t hide his flinch.

It was a minute before he could reach for his phone, unsurprised to see the missed calls. It started ringing again as he picked it up—still on silent of course—and Hotch answered after barely a few beats of delay.

“Dave, he’s still in the hospital.”

“Never mind that, we have people on it, they are on their way to your room now.” There was concern beneath the dismissal so Hotch allowed it. “What happened? Did he—”

“I’m fine,” Hotch replied quickly, all business. “he took the call bell so I couldn’t alert anyone. He could still hurt someone. Who have we got in the hospital?”

“ _Aaron_ , I said it’s taken care of. Has he hurt you?”

The wound on his neck was clotting, the bruises on his wrists a dull ache, bandages in tatters and hospital gown slit down the front—Hotch was fine. He didn’t want to tell Rossi. But he had to tell him something, lying is the most obvious tell a profiler looks for. 

“He mostly just wanted to scare me. I’ll have some bruising, bandages will need redoing, but it’s superficial. Dave we might need to move Haley and Jack, or add some more security as soon as possible. I know they are in witness protection but—Foyet was here for information on them. He wanted my phone. There was nothing on it but there could have been.” Hotch kept his voice steady, slowed it down and skipped right to the point. It was an avoidance, one that wouldn’t last for long, but it was necessary.

“We’ll take care of it.” Rossi must have put his phone to his shoulder, his voice became muffled, but he was back in less than a minute. “Morgan’s making the call now. You ready to tell me what really happened, or do you want to keep deflecting?”

“Dave—”

“Don’t 'Dave' me, Aaron. Foyet almost killed you a few days ago, I need to know he didn’t try again.”

“He didn’t. As I said he wanted my phone.”

“But he didn’t get it.” Dave was speculative now. Thoughtful. 

“No. I—” Hotch cursed his hesitation. He’d just stared down Foyet, again, and he was stumbling now. “I handled it.”

“Oh? You handled it?” Dave was not going to let this go. Tenacious as ever. “You’re supposed to be resting, recovering, how exactly did you 'handle' it?”

Hotch found himself fighting a smile but sobered quickly at that last question “He brought me flowers and wanted to take my phone—you know his MO at crime scenes—but I persuaded him to take something else.”

There was a moment of deadly silence. “What else?”

Hotch rolled his eyes. His friend’s overprotective nature was usually welcomed, diverted towards the rest at the team, but he did not like when it was directed at him.

“Unimportant, I’ll fill you in when you get back. How’s the case going?”

“Clumsy, Aaron. Very clumsy. You goaded him, didn’t you? Found something he wanted more.” Dave paused. “I’m going to kill him.”

Hotch ignored him. “The case?”

“Damnit Aaron,” David hissed. His tone was pitched low, quiet, as if he didn’t want anyone overhearing what he was about to say. “I’m sick of members of this team weaponizing their trauma.”

As with everything his friend said, it was unnervingly accurate. But Hotch didn’t have time to let it sucker punch him. “The case.”

“Easy, open and shut. On our way back now.” An obstinate pause. “I’ll fill you in properly when I get back.”

“Rossi.”

“ _Hotch_.”

“Fine.” He replied smoothly. “Text me when you land.”

“Will do.”

Hotch was still staring at his phone when two officers hurried in a minute later, guns drawn, and eyes alert. A nurse followed once they gave the all clear. They were all professional enough to suppress their shock at the sight of him.

It was going to be a long day.

It was only later, when bandages had been replaced and he was dressed again, when the doctor left and he had privacy, that he felt some of the tension leave him. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, raised a hand to the bandage on his neck and allowed himself a moment. He felt himself blush. It was embarrassing, was going to be a lot more so, and it had already been bad enough explaining to the doctor what had happened. Not that he needed to—it was so _obvious_. 

One moment. That was all. Then, a deep sigh, and he dropped his hand from his neck. 

Foyet had been a wealth of information. And if using himself as bait was going to end this then Hotch had absolutely no reservations about doing so. If he could distract him from chasing his family, from hunting them down, then he would do it. And from how Foyet had acted today Hotch knew exactly how he could distract him. For Haley and Jack, for all the people Foyet had murdered, there was no contest. Half the battle was how easily Foyet could disappear, stop killing, and it was very difficult to investigate with no new leads. He needed new leads.

There were a multitude of ways Foyet could have gotten his phone number, if it had occurred to him to want it, but Hotch giving it to him willingly? That was irresistible.

Potentially game changing.

Hotch had placed his phone on the table, next to the roses that would be entered as evidence (another humiliation he was ruthlessly ignoring). He glanced at it thoughtfully. He guessed it had been about two hours since Foyet had left.

Should be right about about—

His phone lit up with a notification not two seconds later. Hotch couldn’t help his small, vicious smile.

_Gotcha_.

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to explore this dynamic for a while, hope I've done it justice. Hotch is so interesting to write because even in his own head he isn't always honest about how he's really feeling. Let me know why you think!
> 
> Edit: Now confirmed as a series.


End file.
